worthy hunt. You will surprise them, never fear. Our security has been excellent. They will never, ever expect such a thing.”
“That is our vital advantage, Colonel,” the Captain had replied, now suddenly anxious to be away. “But we must depart, and submerge before the next satellite.”
The Colonel had grimaced again, grinding his teeth. “Their satellites are the devil’s work. But I wanted to speak to you personally, to confirm the trust. You are my kinsman, Muhammad Al Khali, and I yours. The blood of our tribes is the same. It is for this reason that you command this mission. You are zealous, and you are trusted. And you must trust me, as I trust you. You and your crew are not being dispatched to die, but to avenge the great American crimes. The Jamahiriya will ensure that you return safely.”
The Captain had nodded his head in appreciation. “Our trust is complete, Colonel. We shall exact justice, as it is written.”
“Go then, Scorpion, and strike the Godless Americans. It is God’s will.” The Colonel had stepped forward and embraced the Captain in the traditional kiss of greeting and departure.
“Inshallah,” the Captain had intoned. “As God wills it.”
The Colonel had turned away, his robes floating silently around his feet, and the waiting men had scrambled to get back in the car even as the Colonel climbed in. His door had been barely closed before the driver started up, turned the big car around in one smooth motion on the pier, and drove back towards the shore. The Captain had released his breath, resisting an impulse to wipe his brow. He had turned to look down the pier.
“Linehandlers!” he had roared, and the two men at either end of the submarine sprang to their feet. Two petty officers rose out of a hatch on the submarine’s deck, one heading forward, the other aft. They must have been waiting right below the hatch, he remembered thinking. Watchful, as they should be. As they would all have to be for this
mission. The nerves had thrummed in his arms and legs as he strode quickly up the brow, turned forward, nodded once to the Musaid, and climbed the ladder to the maneuvering station at the top of the conning tower, rising through the cloud of exhaust fumes from the engines. The man on the pier had hauled on the short, steel brow, pulling it back onto the pier with a screech of metal on concrete. Up on the conning tower, the watch officer had been speaking on the intercom circuit. Forward on the hull, the Musaid supervised the linehandlers as they unwrapped their lines in preparation for casting off.
“We are ready?” he had asked, wedging himself into the tiny cockpit at the top of the conning tower, his eyes stinging from the diesel fumes.
“Yes, Captain,” the watch officer had replied. “More than ready. I have given main engineering control a one minute standby. That was him? I did not dream it?”
“Himself. It is a great honor. An auspicious beginning.” He had surveyed the pier. “Very well. Take in the lines.”
The watch officer had given a hand signal to the men on the pier, and the petty officers on deck slacked the mooring lines. The submarine had been rolling very slowly, a few degrees from side to side, almost imperceptibly, as if anxious to be underway. Deep in her guts, the tone of the three main engines changed as the engineers reconfigured the control boards, producing a fresh blast of smoke along the pier. The men on deck had pulled the lines onboard quickly, hand over hand to keep them out of the water. The watch officer stood high on the foot railing of the cockpit, leaning out and looking forward and aft to see the lines.
“All lines clear,” he had announced. Behind and above them, the two petty officers stationed as lookouts slipped large, black Russian binoculars around their necks, and clipped their safety belts to the periscope mountings.
“Very well. All engines back two thirds together,” ordered the Captain.
The engine noise
“That is our vital advantage, Colonel,” the Captain had replied, now suddenly anxious to be away. “But we must depart, and submerge before the next satellite.”
The Colonel had grimaced again, grinding his teeth. “Their satellites are the devil’s work. But I wanted to speak to you personally, to confirm the trust. You are my kinsman, Muhammad Al Khali, and I yours. The blood of our tribes is the same. It is for this reason that you command this mission. You are zealous, and you are trusted. And you must trust me, as I trust you. You and your crew are not being dispatched to die, but to avenge the great American crimes. The Jamahiriya will ensure that you return safely.”
The Captain had nodded his head in appreciation. “Our trust is complete, Colonel. We shall exact justice, as it is written.”
“Go then, Scorpion, and strike the Godless Americans. It is God’s will.” The Colonel had stepped forward and embraced the Captain in the traditional kiss of greeting and departure.
“Inshallah,” the Captain had intoned. “As God wills it.”
The Colonel had turned away, his robes floating silently around his feet, and the waiting men had scrambled to get back in the car even as the Colonel climbed in. His door had been barely closed before the driver started up, turned the big car around in one smooth motion on the pier, and drove back towards the shore. The Captain had released his breath, resisting an impulse to wipe his brow. He had turned to look down the pier.
“Linehandlers!” he had roared, and the two men at either end of the submarine sprang to their feet. Two petty officers rose out of a hatch on the submarine’s deck, one heading forward, the other aft. They must have been waiting right below the hatch, he remembered thinking. Watchful, as they should be. As they would all have to be for this
mission. The nerves had thrummed in his arms and legs as he strode quickly up the brow, turned forward, nodded once to the Musaid, and climbed the ladder to the maneuvering station at the top of the conning tower, rising through the cloud of exhaust fumes from the engines. The man on the pier had hauled on the short, steel brow, pulling it back onto the pier with a screech of metal on concrete. Up on the conning tower, the watch officer had been speaking on the intercom circuit. Forward on the hull, the Musaid supervised the linehandlers as they unwrapped their lines in preparation for casting off.
“We are ready?” he had asked, wedging himself into the tiny cockpit at the top of the conning tower, his eyes stinging from the diesel fumes.
“Yes, Captain,” the watch officer had replied. “More than ready. I have given main engineering control a one minute standby. That was him? I did not dream it?”
“Himself. It is a great honor. An auspicious beginning.” He had surveyed the pier. “Very well. Take in the lines.”
The watch officer had given a hand signal to the men on the pier, and the petty officers on deck slacked the mooring lines. The submarine had been rolling very slowly, a few degrees from side to side, almost imperceptibly, as if anxious to be underway. Deep in her guts, the tone of the three main engines changed as the engineers reconfigured the control boards, producing a fresh blast of smoke along the pier. The men on deck had pulled the lines onboard quickly, hand over hand to keep them out of the water. The watch officer stood high on the foot railing of the cockpit, leaning out and looking forward and aft to see the lines.
“All lines clear,” he had announced. Behind and above them, the two petty officers stationed as lookouts slipped large, black Russian binoculars around their necks, and clipped their safety belts to the periscope mountings.
“Very well. All engines back two thirds together,” ordered the Captain.
The engine noise
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